


Table Conversation

by canterville



Category: Jupiter Ascending (2015)
Genre: Abrasax family dinners, Fluff, Gen, Not-so-carefully veiled death-threats, Snark, Space food, Standard Issue Abrasax Tempers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-24
Updated: 2015-02-24
Packaged: 2018-03-15 00:09:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3430598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canterville/pseuds/canterville
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Family dinners are Kalique's idea, but perhaps not one of her better ones.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Table Conversation

**Author's Note:**

> I feel like we don't get to see enough of the "standard issue" Abrasax temper, particularly not from Kalique. I've seen it fit to do a little something about that.

Family dinners are Kalique’s idea. The infighting does not trouble her, so much as the _appearance_ of infighting does. They have other rivals beside one another, after all, and it must always remain clear that they can ally in an instant to crush a competing House. Balem tried to kill her only yesterday, and now sits to her right, placidly sipping a chilly rosé. The grapes, according to Titus, had been crushed between the eight breasts of some spliced race of women from a planet Kalique elects to forget the name of. She smiles at the lurid description. Balem does not. This does not stop him from motioning that his glass be filled to the brim, however. Titus, her spies warned, poisoned the wine, and so she has had the antivenom steadily dispersing into the room as smoke from so many candles, crafted to that purpose. The drink does tickle a bit on the tongue, but all three tasters survived the first swallow. The assassination attempts are their love letters, too personal to be a mere matter of formality.  
  
For now, the youngest Abrasax is peeling a blood orange and staring intently at the eldest. Kalique entertains the notion of telling them not to start, but futility is not something she prefers to practice. Crystal chimes as Balem sets down his glass. He turns his attention to his plate, not looking up as he deftly slices a batar shoot in two. They are a fine red, like the majority of the flora on Cerise, and essential in pairings with Cerisean pheasant. Kalique doubts that makes much difference to Balem, however, whose sense of aesthetics is austere at best. There is a long enough beat of silence that she almost thinks they might make it to the next course without any fuss.  
  
“Is there something you need, Titus?” Balem's dry inquiry sets Kalique's teeth on edge. Here they go. She should have known better. Titus leans back in his chair, raising his own glass. He is a breath of fresh air compared to her dour, elder brother, but he can, at times, be deliberately and frustratingly dense.  
  
“Oh, no. Nothing at all.” This is one of those times.  
  
“How relieving,” Balem drawls. “Could it be you’ve settled your debt to House Orias?” Titus smiles.  
  
“All in good time, brother. I could not prevail on you for assistance after what happened to that seeding facility of yours… Who might have expected that star would _explode_ , after all? Where was that, again?”  
  
“I am surprised you do not know, given your familiarity with failure.” Kalique keeps her head down. Patient. She must be patient. It will not do to let such a fine cut of meat go cold. It melts in her mouth; perfect. She will not allow her fool brothers’ sniping spoil her supper. Still, Titus’ retort almost spurs her intervention.  
  
“I was also quite familiar with _mother_. You wouldn’t call her a failure.”  
  
“Ah, so we have proven you have two areas of expertise,” Balem retorts. “Failure, and our mother. Is it time for another eulogy?”  
  
“Perhaps one day it will come time for yours.”  
  
“And you will deliver it?”  
  
“Why shouldn’t I?” Kalique glances up, but neither one of her brothers seem to notice the daggers she’s looking at them with. More likely, they are ignoring her, which is preferable in politics and intolerable at the dinner table. Titus goes on, in spite of her, with a lazy shrug of his shoulders. “It’s my responsibility as the youngest to consider these things.”  
  
“That the dead feel no disappointment is increasingly a mercy.”  
  
“Mercy,” Titus scoffs. “I’m certain you’re _quite_ the expert where mercy is concerned.”  
  
“Hardly.”  
  
“Mother was.” The youngest Abrasax seems satisfied with that dig, and takes a deep swallow of wine. The timing, however, quickly becomes unfortunate. The cutlery jumps into the air as Kalique slams her fist down on the table.  
  
“ _How many times must I ask the two of you not to squabble at supper?!_ ” Titus startles and immediately chokes on his wine, too busy coughing to notice Balem turn so pale he almost looks cyanotic. The eldest Abrasax sets down his knife and fork, rising from the table without a word. He turns on his heel, and might have fled, were it not for Kalique. “I would hate to cut our meal short, wouldn't _you_ , Balem?”  
  
There are few things that can keep Balem Abrasax from leaving once he has decided he has had enough. One of them is Kalique’s toothy smile, which he has learned is more akin to when a lioness bares her fangs. He resumes his seat immediately. Titus, meanwhile, has finished choking. He still manages to look unaffected, and cheerful, even while slightly short of breath. He clears his throat.  
  
“So! Dessert?”


End file.
